Butterflies and Hurricanes
by Gothic Author
Summary: [SLASH CONTENT, modern day] In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee... In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife... How do you measure a year in the life?
1. Defying Gravity

**Defying Gravity**

On the inside cover of a 1995 edition of _Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West:_

_For Tony—_

_Hope we don't end up like them._

_Love, Sean_

_

* * *

_

I have to laugh every time I read that inscription. Sean would say that... He jokes, you know, about my being in the mafia – which I'm not, as far as I know, but being born Italian, you never really know – and since Fiyero... Well, that would ruin the story for you, wouldn't it?

It's a good book, you know. Maguire knows what he's doing, though I haven't read too much of him yet. After all, Sean only got me _Wicked_ for my last birthday – the binding's already soft and ribbed from the number of times I've read it – and I've been in love with it ever since. The first bit drags on a little, but once it starts going, you can't put it down. I took him to see the show, and it was all right. I mean, it was amazing and everything – Menzel knows what _she's_ doing, too – but it isn't the same... The book, it's tragic and happy and... You really have to read it for yourself.

Me and Sean, we bond over books and Broadway. We met in a bookstore on Long Beach, actually, and we chatted each other up at Starbucks later. And the week after that, we saw "La Cage aux Folles" together.

Yes, you heard me. "La Cage aux Folles".

What'd you expect?

Anyway...

Me and Sean, we have the same taste, but we still have to agree to disagree on everything anyway. Except for maybe Eugene O'Neill, because he's brilliant, though personally, I think Sean just fell in love with the tumbler on the cover of _A Long Day's Journey Into Night_. But that play is great. We went to see that, too... Absolutely fucking _brilliant_. But on other things, like _Harry Potter_? I enjoy good juvenile fiction once in awhile... And you've got to admit. Rowling may not write literature, but she's got a certain hook. I mean, _Prisoner of Azkaban_? Who saw the ending coming? Not me. But Sean, he's too _old_ for something like that, 734 pages or not... Sean, he's too _mature_ for something that doesn't require too much thought. Even though he hides the books under his bed; I know, because I dropped a pen once, and what do I find but a secret stash of _Harry_ books. Hardcover, too.

Me and Sean, we fight a lot. Some couples have bad days. We have bad weeks. We're kind of like Phedre and Joscelin in Carey's _Kushiel_trilogy – I maintain that Carey has a good mind for plot, no matter what Sean says (he swears he reads them for the sex scenes, but I don't believe him, and you shouldn't, either). We give each other the silent treatment, and we pound each other into the ground. We bicker over dishes and argue over bedding. We scream and yell and say that we hate each other at least once a month. Our girl friends think it's cute. We think they're crazy.

Me and Sean, we're always there for each other. I'm there when he hates the world and everything in it, especially himself, and decides – silly boy – that alcohol is his new (or would that be old?) best friend. I'm there when he secretly smiles as he flips through the newest Lemony Snicket book because he doesn't think anyone is looking. And I'm there when he gushes over how great Dostoevsky is, and his eyes are shining, and his face is flushed, and I really, really love him like that because it's the Sean that only I know. He's there when I get annoyed with all the stupidity in the world and start beating the crap out of my walls. And he's there when I spend five minutes measuring out a teaspoon of garlic because I'm anal enough that the flavor has to be just right. He laughs at me, you know, but I don't mind, because personally, I rather like his laugh. It's light and slightly mocking, but it's a good kind of mocking, even if it makes me blush. I'm not very pretty when I blush.

Me and Sean... We just... We fit, you know? We fit, and I think I love him, and I think he loves me, too, or at least he thinks he does, which is good enough for me.

And you know, I might like tragic endings when I read, but me and Sean?

* * *

On a Post-It note taped to a ticket to "Wicked": 

_To Sean—_

_We won't._

_Love, Tony_

_

* * *

_

Right... Well, since I haven't posted anything in about half a year, I thought I should probably, you know, post something to show that I haven't died yet.

"Butterflies and Hurricanes" is a collection of modern day ficlets, all told from Tony's (Race's) point of view. Most of these are going to be the result of either a challenge or a secret slash extravaganza, because I'm lazy when I'm not busy, and those are a few of the things that actually get me writing...

This one is for Raven.

Happy hols!

**Gothic Author**

**P. S. **And because Quickedit is evil, the formatting will probably be a little off... Why can't I use brackets?!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeevil...

**P. P. S. **"Butterflies and Hurricanes" is from a song by Muse, by the way... Absolutely brilliant, it is.


	2. Song on the Sand

**Song on the Sand**

I kicked at the snow savagely. New York sparkled and shined – even more so than usual, since it was Christmas – but I couldn't appreciate the brilliant lights, not tonight.

I took a careful sip of hot chocolate, which scalded my tongue anyway, and once the stuff had cooled down enough to swallow, I remembered quite miserably that had everything been right, we would've been out on our usual jaunt through the city right about now. Every year, Sean would drag on my arm, impatient to get to the Brooklyn docks, and when we finally got there, we'd stand with cups of peppermint hot chocolate – fresh from Starbucks – and watch the overbright nighttime skyline side-by-side. It really was a brilliant view. And then Sean would sigh and say that it was beautiful (he's always been a closet romantic, no matter how tough he acts). I'd laugh and call him a girl. We would never touch except for the lightest brush of coat on coat because touching was for later.

Unfortunately, the touching would not be happening tonight.

It was entirely my fault, too, which was sort of a new thing. It's usually Sean who messes up – coming home drunk with lipstick stains on his shirt, but that stuff never means anything, he says, and I believe him - but I couldn't even blame him just a little bit. In hindsight, my (sometimes) overzealous boyfriend had started dropping hints about a month ago, yet somehow, all of this had miraculously escaped my usually keen senses, and I'd forgotten anyway. Yes, sir, it was all my fault.

You see, I had very conveniently forgotten about our ten year anniversary.

I know, I know… I deserve to be shot.

So, very understandably, Sean threw me out of the house. Almost bodily, too… Never underestimate short guys; that's the first thing you learn when you're dealing with him (of course, at five foot five, I really can't talk).

And now… Now, I was standing on a random street corner in the middle of New York City. By myself. On Christmas Eve. Which was not fun.

But somehow, I had a feeling that anniversary-forgetting was never solved with something so simple as staying away and sulking forever.

Which meant desperate measures.

"Right…" I muttered, crumpling the cardboard cup and stuffing it into my pocket. "Desperate measures…"

* * *

I took a deep breath. 

"Do you recall that windy little beach we walked along that afternoon in fall, that afternoon we met?"

My knee was cold and wet, I couldn't feel my hands, and I'm sure my vibrato wasn't up to par. Yes, for the record, I felt immensely stupid.

"A fellow with a concertina sang— What was the song? It's strange what we recall, and odd what we forget…"

Evidently, Sean was not the sort to be persuaded by heart-and-ear-rending serenades.

"I heard…" I was immensely proud of myself for being able to hold a slightly wavering note while fumbling around for a harmonica – one-handed – then bringing it up to my mouth.

And at long last, the window by the fire escape burst open. I couldn't see him all that clearly – the light from the bedroom lit up the edges of his figure, but his face was cast in shadow – but I knew that he was giving me that incredulous look. After all, I'd never played the harmonica for anyone but him before, and now I was showcasing it to the world. Or an empty alleyway, at least.

(There is also the fact that I've known him for ten years, but that can go unmentioned, I think…)

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Being desperate."

He stared. I'm pretty sure he was speechless, though he'd never tell me if I asked. He'd say that he'd been laughing at me and trying not to let it show. And then later, he'd smile to himself when he thinks I'm sleeping – I'm really watching him watch me sleep, but don't tell him because it wouldn't be fun if he knew – and I'd know he was lying.

This is all, of course, assuming that he'd actually be good enough to let me back in the apartment. Which, if he didn't, I wouldn't blame him. But it would be a shame.

But then his shoulders heaved – Sean sighing is a beautiful thing – and I could tell that he'd given up because my irresistibility was an undeniable thing, and it had charmed him many times before (and because of the way he held his head down to keep from smiling, but the irresistibility is always more important). Sure enough, the next minute he was waving me up.

I climbed up seven flights of stairs (elevators would've ruined the suspension) and hoped that I'd get to do it forever. Unless we decided to move to an actual house or something, which would make it porch stairs, I suppose, but either way, I hope I always get to climb back up again.

He greeted me at the door with a mumbled, "Don't do that again," – how I could forget our tenth anniversary again was beyond me, as we only had one, but I made a note not to forget our twentieth - and I offered him the rose I'd been delicately clutching for about an hour. As he reached out to take it, his fingers brushed mine, and all of a sudden, I could feel them again, and then he kissed me, light and chaste, which was something he hadn't done in awhile, and I was relieved. There are no words for how relieved I was, you know, that he'd opened the door, and at that moment, I promised I'd always open the door for him, too, even if I never said it out loud. I think he knows, anyway. Me and Sean, we always wait for each other.

And when I kissed him back, I felt him smile against my lips, and I was very, very glad that I didn't care about looking stupid or getting frostbite on my fingertips or having arthritis in my left knee where I knelt in the snow because it would be much, much more than a shame to lose this (the golden lashes and summer blue eyes and pianist fingers).

Later, in the morning, he'd probably smile in that slow, lazy way – for my benefit, mostly, because he knows how much I love that smile – and say something about how if this was what he got in return, then I could forget our anniversary any day. In the morning, I would groan and bury my face in his stomach and apologize a million times over. In the morning, he'd laugh and say that I could make it up with chocolates and my oh-so-brilliant cooking (which is part of the irresistibility, you know). In the morning, we'd have breakfast – well-flavored omelettes with cheese danishes for his sweet tooth and orange juice because, "Milk is barbaric". In the morning, we'd smile at each other shyly, as if we were on our first date, even if the touch of familiar heat behind it all gave it away.

But now… Now is for touching. Because, you know, it's a tradition, and since we'd already broken one, it would be bad to break the other, too.

Yes, sir. Traditions are good things.

* * *

This one's for **parkranger**. It's not new... I just took it off because of that new lyric thing they had posted, but you know what? Fuck it. 

"Song on the Sand" is from _La Cage aux Folles, _music and lyrics by Jerry Herman, book by Harvey Feirstein.

Have at.

**Gothic Author**


End file.
